


Attack of the Canned Cooked Meat

by baja_king



Category: 300 (Movies), Hogan's Heroes (TV 1965), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Gen, Parody
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:34:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27726230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baja_king/pseuds/baja_king
Summary: All puns intended
Kudos: 1





	Attack of the Canned Cooked Meat

## Invasion

It seemed like any other typical day. The evening snow blanketed the camp, giving reason for prisoners to frolic in wintry fashion while one disgruntled guard attempted counting them as part of the ritual known as roll call. The sun barely moved, refusing to yield light or warmth, but that did not discourage hopes of snowmen building contests after the morning assemblage.

“Report!” The Kommandant demanded strict adherence to his timetable. Klink always suspected the prisoners were plotting escape whenever they interfered with the routine. With military precision that marked him as a career officer, he approached his sergeant of the guard. Yes, the stammering confirmed what he already knew: he _was_ a man to be feared.

Schultz saluted and nervously replied, “Herr Kommandant, I beg to report that the prisoners refuse to behave.”

With calculating pace, Klink approached Hogan and said, “My dear Colonel Hogan, you will find me tough but fair. While you have the luxury of sitting out the war in comfort, I have important things to do.”

One man closed his lips, stuck out his tongue, and made _that sound_. It irritated Klink. He found it difficult to believe it was anything but contempt or derision. Americans were a strange breed who embraced certain customs that defied civilized manners. On several occasions, he entertained Hogan’s explanation that the Bronx cheer was a respected salute to men of high esteem. Looking at the snickering prisoners, he knew that was a perpetual lie.

Hogan shrugged, “You’re absolutely right. I think I’ll take up a new hobby. Maybe the Red Cross will send us some more knitting needles and yarn.”

“Not today,” smiled Klink. “Assuming that the road gets cleared, you may find your bellies a little more full than usual. But then again, if it doesn’t, you’ll have to eat the same bread and soup.”

Hogan understood the gambit and said, “The Red Cross packages – where are they?”

“The last radio transmission puts them on the highway,” replied Klink. “That has already been plowed. The road leading to camp has not.”

Hogan said, “I’d really like my knitting needles and yarn. I volunteer to help shovel snow.”

“I thought you might,” Klink commented with just the correct amount of skepticism required. “Sergeant Schultz, see to it. Dismissed!”

The unexpected air raid siren created organized chaos. A lone plane dropped its cargo and Hogan stood defiantly as the shower of leaflets descended. He did not order a propaganda-bombing run. He angrily snatched one of the leaflets. Several of his men responded in kind.

Hogan changed his tone to one of sheer confusion, “See You? What does it mean?”

Carter exclaimed, “Oh boy! This one is not rated PG-13!”

Hogan snapped, “I don’t have time for anachronisms. PG-13 hasn’t been invented yet.”

Kinchloe calmly said, “Andrew’s right. Someone dropped a bunch of F bombs on us.”

Newkirk earnestly commented, “Not on us. They think we’re harboring someone called See You.”

“Well, this isn’t some sugar report about Mary,” scoffed Kinchloe.

As Klink brushed snow off his coat he snapped, “Sergeant Schultz! See to it that all of this rubbish is cleared away immediately!”

“Jawohl, Herr Kommandant,” replied Schultz.

LeBeau cried, “But Andrew makes the best snowmen! What about our contest?”

Klink sneered, “Mary apparently doesn’t like you. Why don’t you report her to the Red Cross?”

Hogan snapped, “Alright, the sooner we pick up this trash, the sooner we can start shoveling snow and get our Red Cross packages.”

Yet the task proved daunting despite the prisoners’ effort. Just when it seemed as if every piece of trash was cleared, the air raid siren blared and another propaganda-bombing mission dumped hundreds more leaflets. The prisoners resented being taken away from their usual activities. The war needed them. LeBeau needed to wed his beloved Marya. Carter needed to reconcile with his sweetheart back in the States. Newkirk absolutely had to have the perfect royal flush – all spades – in a game to the death against Hitler.

Finally – a reprieve! However, at what cost? In all the efforts to deal with the trash, the sun neglected to continue rising. It remained barely visible above the horizon. Men looked at their watches, now frozen in the moment that typically represented roll call. Even the Germans reacted with frenzy, not understanding the meaning of it all. Klink needed his timetable strictly adhered to, and supernatural hijinks prevented that noble responsibility.

A new sound filled the area. Trees fell as the onslaught of mechanical men marched through the woods that surrounded the camp. Hogan _needed_ those trees. A cleared forest meant he could end up going out of the escape business. Guard towers energized with enthusiasm as gunners took aim and fired upon the approaching invaders.

Carter shrugged, “Maybe this is just like _Star Wars_ and just one man is controlling them.”

Hogan rolled his eyes, “I’m in anachronistic crossover Hell today.”

As Kinchloe pointed towards the East Gate, he said with awe, “We’re doing a crossover with them.”

Impossible, thought Hogan, as the military formation donned in bright red capes and skimpy leathers made its way through the compound. They were the most incredibly handsome men with six packs he ever saw. Despite the snow-covered ground, they marched in precision until commanded to a halt in front of the Kommandantur by the bearded leader.

While guards cringed in fear, Hogan dared approach the leader and asked, “Who are you?”

“King Leonidas,” the man replied.

Hogan smirked, _“Three Hundred.”_

“I’m honored you think me from that movie,” said Leonidas. “Let us hope that I’m not a parody within a parody.”

Newkirk turned to Kinchloe and said, “Bloody hell, what a way to break the fourth wall.”

“I think these guys can break more than that,” Kinchloe smiled with admiration.

Carter exclaimed, “That’s pure genius! Everyone knows that Mary Sue loves hunks like them!”

The strange war council convened as Klink, Hogan, and Leonidas discussed battle plans. The unseen litterer temporarily retreated but the men understood it a brief reprieve. They agreed they could not wait out the scofflaw nor feed it a baby bottle every time it uttered its battle cry, “See You hurt me! Hurt See You!”

Klink was happy to step aside and wait in Limbo while Hogan and Leonidas stared at each other in an attempt to wear down the other man. Someone had to lead the comingled troops. Then his mind filled with doubt. What if Hogan and his men convinced the mighty Spartans to help them escape? His perfect record would be hopelessly shattered. It meant the firing squad. A handful of men – maybe a reprimand; two hundred men – he would meet either his Maker or the Devil.

Klink cried, “This is World War Two! This is a Luftstalag! I’m in command here. Follow me.” A great roar of laughter swelled among all ranks – German, Allied, and Spartan. Klink felt genuinely hurt. It was not his fault. His character had to act a certain way in order to appeal to a specific audience at one moment in time. This being fan fiction, he could act, as he should have originally.

Hogan shrugged, “Alright, King Leonidas. Lead the way.”

The assemblage began its march out the Main Gate. Hogan understood command but regretted his decision to march at the front of the formation. It took him three paces to match one of Leonidas’ strides. The cold air started hurting his lungs. He stopped.

Leonidas casually said, “Catch your breath and then catch up to us.”

Hogan wondered what he did to offend Her Royal Majesty, Mary Sue, Queen of Trash. He needed back in the business of helping escaping prisoners of war return to England. There was always a fuel dump in desperate need of sabotage. He liked trains and knew that someday his grandson would hate him for blowing them up, but the Germans did not use cute and adorable anthropomorphic steam engines.

The bomber pilot realized that his watch once again worked. The sun no longer remained frozen along the horizon as if trapped by winter itself. He felt optimistic once again. Yes, the fan fiction authors understood the truth. It takes more than a snot nosed brat to silence creativity. Maybe Her Royal Majesty tired of an unimportant author.

Hogan realized the Spartans changed their pace. They raised shields and spears. He understood ancient battle formations. It was a beautiful phalanx. He ordered his men to stand fast. He hoped that the Spartans were not cannon fodder in this bizarre hissy fit. Who was See You?

A fierce explosion pierced the air. Hogan felt dumbstruck. Small projectiles began flying through the air, arcing high and then raining with ferocity. He cried, “Get down!”

As every can fell, Hogan felt the sting. The trees afforded some cover. He tried shielding his head, as did the others. Just when he thought it was over, another explosion rattled his nerves. More projectiles followed the initial volley. When the rain ended, he picked up one of the cans. His men also looked at the curious choice of missile.

Kinchloe exclaimed, “Colonel, it’s honest to God spam.”

Hogan said, “I can see that.”

LeBeau harrumphed, “Even the poorest Parisian peasant eats better than this!”

Carter opened his eyes as wide as possible and said, “They forgot the mayo!” As Newkirk swatted him on the top of his head with his hat, Carter winced, “What’d you do that for?”

“Something tells me we’re not getting our Red Cross packages,” growled Hogan.

Kinchloe said, “Just remember that over one hundred and fifty million tons of this stuff was shipped overseas to our troops.”

“Bloody hell, don’t remind me,” cried Newkirk.

Hogan stood and commanded, “Come on. Those Spartans got the worst of it.” He felt the aches and pains, silently wishing the author would write them away. It was rotten luck being stuck in a story written by someone who felt it his personal mission to insert some level of reality in what should have been a situational comedy. He vowed to take the author to Mary Sue Court. The only question unanswered: should he hire Spock Prime or Jack O’Neill to take the case?

Cautiously, the men approached the edge of the woods. Three hundred fallen Spartans laid dead or dying from the assault. Their minimal movie armor did not serve them well in this perverse travesty upon human creativity. Hogan saw bodies simply vanish, one at a time, sometimes in small groups. His brief friend stood bloodied and battered.

Hogan asked, “Where are you going? Spartans fight to the death.”

Leonidas replied, “You should know as well as I that Hollywood takes certain historical liberties. I’m off to AO3.”

It could not end like this. Hogan decided to use language so colorful that it required obscuration by strange bleeping noises and unusual character symbols. His men looked at him with such incredulousness that briefly he felt ashamed. While Schultz opened another can of spam, he spoke to his men in German.

Carter innocently commented, “I’ve never heard those words before.”

“He’s translating,” said Kinchloe.

Carter asked, “What’s he saying?”

Kinchloe replied, “You’d be hard pressed to find those words on Google Translate.”

Hogan said, “Alright, so some of the authors are frustrated.”

Newkirk said, “But Governor, where is the Admin in all of this?”

“That is the sixty four thousand dollar question,” replied Hogan. “Damn it, I’m not giving up.”

A lone plane flew overhead and Hogan understood its mission. Trash littered the sky. He despised the propaganda bombs. It was the same garbage as before, and he wondered who was the All Powerful See You that Her Royal Majesty Queen Mary Sue so despised. He looked at his watch and saw the hands once again frozen in place.

Hogan finally said, “Alright, I’ve had it. Let’s find this See You character.”

Newkirk said, “But Governor, we’ve never even heard of this bloke.”

Hogan calmly said, “The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Mary should have damn well left us alone.”

Kinchloe cried, “Look! Coming up the road!”

All eyes turned and saw a massive horde approaching. Hogan analyzed the situation. He saw old friends from crossovers, animated characters made from paint or cloth, historical figures with unusual accessories, assorted professions including doctors and nurses, main characters accompanied by supporting and guest characters. Lit torches were raised in anger and Frankenstein’s creature defied the flames to join the mob.

“Where is See You?”

Hogan said, “Don’t know but let’s go find him.”

One woman cried, “This is all his fault!”

Another woman cried, “Burn him at the stake!”

Three men appeared out of thin air wearing red robes and large gold crosses. One had a wide brimmed hat. Another wore a soft leather pilot’s helmet with aviation goggles resting across his forehead. The third man wore a simple hood.

Hogan nonchalantly said, “We weren’t expecting you.”

The lead man cried, “Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!”

This is getting weirder by the second, thought Hogan. Clearly, the author overdid it with the cigarettes and beer. A warm and delightful odor filled his nostrils. His stomach rumbled in protest. How dare the author eat pocket pizzas at a time like this!

The semi violent mob resumed its march. Somehow, the horde knew where to go. Hogan was not disappointed when they arrived at the Coliseum. Persons wearing black robes and Guy Fawkes’ masks encouraged orderly entry but the crowd resisted. They wanted blood. They angrily shook fists and shouted jeers at the ten figures in white robes and masks that stood on a platform.

One of the figures bellowed, “SILENCE!” The crowd seemed shocked but did as instructed. The figure continued, “I own one of the forums that some of you are discussing Mary, Queen of Spam. I am just as frustrated as you are that some immature thumb-sucking brat is throwing a hissy fit. I am just a user. I have no authority to banish the itty bitty baby, except when it dares create another sock puppet to harass my beloved forum friends.”

Another forum owner said, “I encourage all of you to continue reporting these spam attacks. If they come as weak guest reviews, delete them. Turn on your comment moderation so Mary can’t mouth off behind the label Guest. Block those sock puppets and report every disgusting piece of spam to the Great and Powerful Admin.”

Hogan stood and angrily cried, “If this Admin is indeed great and powerful, why doesn’t he do anything about this?” He did not care that his valid question fueled the flames of the raised torches. At this point, he was tired of the distraction from his business.

Yet another forum owner spoke, “You can run away from this. You can pull your stories and abandon the site that hosts your works. You can let yourself be bullied by this cowardly troll. I am collecting reports, just as are other forum owners.”

Three shimmering lights representing the materialization process from the classic and one true _Star Trek_ series. Old timers exclaimed with awe and appreciation at seeing the original James T. Kirk, Mister Spock, and Doctor McCoy. One of the forum owners saluted while another curtseyed.

Kirk said, “Bones, we’ve got to do something.”

“Damn it, Jim, I’m a doctor, not a site administrator,” cried the physician.

Spock said, “Captain, my tricorder readings indicate arriving vessels from multiple fandoms.”

Hogan shouted, “Now what? Incoming AU’s? Parallel universes? Alternate timelines? Why should we even care?”

A different shimmering light appeared on stage. Most of the fandoms did not understand the arrival of a regular character from a small fandom. The diminutive grey alien spoke, “I am Thor, Supreme Commander of the Asgard Fleet. If you do nothing, Mary wins. All of our realities cease to exist.”

Air raid sirens blared, the sound unaccustomed to most but quite familiar to Hogan as well as other characters featured in war fandoms. He hoped it was simple propaganda this time. He still smarted from the rain of canned spam.

Kirk cried, “Spock! Activate those shields!”

The order was implemented too late as a rain of leaflets littered the arena. Hogan picked up several of the leaflets and saw that it was complete gibberish in the form of unsigned guest reviews. Not this again! He was not alone in his sentiment.

A strange forum owner walked onto the stage with torn robes slightly bloodied. The person pulled a large cart full of papers. Someone fought the good fight and that was something he could support. The late arrival said, “I am See You.”

Hogan snapped, “Don’t say another word!” He looked around the crowd and continued, “My author can’t speak on his behalf. I don’t know what’s happened to cause this situation and frankly, I don’t give a damn. The best thing we can do is NOT give baby its bottle. That’s right. Starve that troll.”

Kirk said, “He’s right. Don’t let that troll stifle your creativity. Keep writing. There are so many unexplored possibilities. Canon says Yeoman Rand left the ship without explanation. Fan fiction says, ‘Actually, this is what happened…’ We’re all here because people care about our shows, books, comics, and movies. Keep writing.”

Some felt motivated by the speech while others remained bitter and angry. The familiar shouts resumed, demanding the Site Administrator take charge of the problem. Yet many authors felt such cries fell on deaf ears. The discussions continued for hours. Schultz began corralling the prisoners, determined to return them in time for evening roll call. Hogan knew there was nothing more to be done. Eventually, it would end.

The end – or is it?


End file.
